


Renastere

by nothingamonth



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-29 07:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12626076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingamonth/pseuds/nothingamonth
Summary: Steve and Bucky have known each other for years. They live together in Brooklyn, but a trip to Manhattan to meet the Avengers during a publicity stunt goes terribly wrong when Tony Stark recognizes Bucky's face from certain tapes in his collection...





	1. The Publicity Stunt

Steve squinted at his reflection through a layer of fog on the bathroom mirror. He wiped it away with one long-fingered hand and scowled at the pimples on his chin and cheeks. They’d sprung up almost overnight, despite Proactiv’s promises. He scratched at a whitehead with his fingernail and started squeezing.

A strong arm wrapped around his middle and pulled him flush against a hard body. “Keep doing that and you’ll scar your face,” Bucky purred into his ear.

“I hate it,” Steve grumbled, but left off his picking and picked up a bottle of witch hazel instead. He soaked a cotton swab in it and swept it over his face, especially where the soft, downy hairs of his beard were starting to come in. He hissed in pain when the astringent went over the pimples he’d already popped.

“We all get them. It’s part of being a man.” Bucky kissed the top of his head and sat on the closed toilet, watching Steve wash his face. After the witch hazel, he slapped on some of the moisturizer that Bucky’s sister had recommended.

“Puberty sucked the first time,” Steve replied, turning to face him. His towel was wrapped around his waist, and his arms were folded under his small, perky breasts. Nine months on testosterone had only altered their shape a little; they were still full underneath and capped with perfect, pink little nipples. Only they seemed incongruous now with the rest of him: the broader shoulders, lean, muscled arms, narrow waist, and a face that looked like it was chiseled from stone. His hips were a little wider than the average guy’s, but it wasn’t noticeable at first glance. No, the only thing that really gave Steve away as trans was his size. He barely came up to Bucky’s shoulders. 

“I know,” Bucky finally said, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He and Steve had been friends since before Steve became Steve. No, that wasn’t right. He’d always been Steve, even if he’d been called a different name, a name Bucky rarely thought of these days. It was forgotten, the same way Bucky couldn’t remember what Steve’s voice sounded like before testosterone lowered it.

Steve rolled his eyes and turned back to his reflection. “You think I’ve changed that much?” he asked. When he first started hormone replacement therapy, he took a photo every few weeks. Now, nine months in, the habit had petered out. When he looked in the mirror, he just saw...his face. And the acne.

“When was the last time you were called ‘ma’am’ at work?” Bucky countered. He came up behind him again and rested his chin on Steve’s shoulder. He kept his hand on his waist. Ever respectful of the other’s boundaries. Touching Steve’s breasts was a good way to get punched, and he never tried. Not that boobs weren’t fun, and not that Steve’s weren’t unappealing--Steve just didn’t like it. Bucky respected that, just as he had respected Steve’s refusal to receive oral sex, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited when that restriction was lifted. When Steve had achieved what he thought was “enough” bottom growth, he’d been curious about what it was like to have his dick sucked, and Bucky had been happy to oblige.

Bucky’s lips found their way to the juncture of Steve’s neck and shoulder while his hand pushed the towel over his hips, tangling with the golden, wiry hair on his lower abdomen. The blond’s dick was large enough now to push through the lips of his pussy when he was aroused, which he was. He leaned back against Bucky’s chest with a groan as the other man’s calloused fingers fingered his cleft and stroked the sensitive underside of his cock.

“I love you,” Bucky said, looking at their reflections in the mirror. Himself: one-armed and unshaven, and Steve: fair and fine.

“I love you too,” Steve replied, opening his warm, blue eyes. They were fringed with long, dark lashes, a feminine trait that testosterone couldn’t touch. “But you need to shave.”

“So do you, dirt-stache,” Bucky quipped back. 

Steve rolled his eyes and padded into their bedroom. Bucky heard him rustle around in their dresser before returning dressed in a t-shirt and boxer briefs. He’d bound his breasts. He sat Bucky down on the toilet and grabbed the shaving kit.

Bucky was perfectly capable of shaving himself. He was born without a left arm (as far as he knew; his memories of his childhood were sort of shady); he’d had to adapt. But Steve took an early fascination with the trappings of manhood (for reasons that were now obvious), and shaved him most of the time. He had a steadier hand anyway. 

Steve tied Bucky’s long hair back, lathered his face, and shaved him while Bucky purred. Then he turned the razor to his own patchy stubble. Bucky reluctantly dressed and waited for Steve to finish. He knew he was staring at the acne on his chin.

A moment later he emerged, stepped into a pair of jeans (size 26x28, ordered online only), and flattened his t-shirt self-consciously. “Alright, let’s go,” he said.

“Are we really gonna spend our day off doin’ this?” Bucky asked, stuffing his wallet in his back pocket. His phone went in his front right. Steve turned back to him and shrugged.

“I dunno. Is there something you’d rather be doing than meeting the Avengers?”

Steve shoved his feet into his sneakers: size 5 from the boys department at Kohl’s with pictures of Spider-Man on either side. They’d been on sale.

“Fucking you, for one. Or vice versa. I’m flexible,” Bucky replied, His eyes were on the gentle swell of Steve’s ass as he walked in front of him. 

“Believe me, I know,” the blond replied. He tossed a look over his shoulder that made Bucky’s cock throb in his jeans. He remembered the first time Steve had been inside him: Bucky lay on his back, knees to his chest, while Steve fingered his prostate, bringing him to explosive climax. There was a submissive side to Bucky that only Steve could bring out, one he hadn’t known he’d possessed until Steve asked if he could put his fingers up his ass.

It was safe to say that Bucky’s thoughts were elsewhere while they made their way downtown to the Avengers Tower, formerly Stark Tower, in Manhattan. When they stepped out of the subway station, the roads were packed. Steve was not the only one excited about the meet-and-greet.

He was, however, probably the most aggressive. He took Bucky’s hand and pulled him through the crowd, using his smaller stature to weave in and out where he could, and Bucky’s mass to push through where he couldn’t. Finally, they were standing near the ropes that kept the heroes separated from their adoring public. If Steve had any bigger stars in his eyes, his skull couldn’t contain them. He’d never ‘fessed up to it, but Bucky knew Steve had a thing for the hyper-masculine, romance-novel-esque Thor. He’d found some of his drawings.

Bucky stood behind Steve with his hand on his shoulder, trying not to take up space for someone who actually wanted to be here. Crowds like this made him uncomfortable for some unnameable reason, and so did some of the Avengers, frankly. Tony Stark in particular, though he couldn’t say why. He avoided looking at the man, even when the Iron Man turned his gaze in their direction. It was hard to hear anything over the din of the crowd, but Bucky distinctly heard Stark say, “You!”

Bucky started back, and Steve craned his neck to look up at him in confusion. Tony Stark already closed the distance between them and twisted his gauntleted hand in Bucky’s shirt.

“What the hell?” Steve shouted.

“It’s you, on the tapes!” Stark hissed.

Bucky blinked, his one hand going up to show that he wasn’t armed. Steve went to shove Stark away. That’s when all hell broke loose.

* * *

Steve pillowed his head on his arms. He’d been left alone in this “conference” room for an hour. His eye was swollen shut. When he put his hands on Tony Stark, his security started throwing elbows. He didn’t know where Bucky was.

Finally, the door opened. Steve lifted his head and pinned a glare at Stark despite his shiner. The dark-haired man sat down across from him, looking both weary and angry. “Well, your friend isn’t talking, however much footage I showed him. And who might you be exactly?” he asked.

“Steve Rogers,” the blond answered. “Where is Bucky?”

“That isn’t the name on your driver’s license,” Stark replied, tossing it in front of Steve on the table. The security team had confiscated his wallet. Steve turned his eyes away from it and the image of himself on it.

“Don’t worry, I already had Jarvis pull your records, including your medical records.”

_ So you’re just being an asshole, then,  _ Steve thought.

“How long have you known Mr. Barnes?”

“Four, maybe five years,” Steve finally answered. 

“And he’s how old? I mean, how old do  _ you _ think he is?” Stark asked.

“He’s twenty-two,” he replied, rubbing his face briskly. These questions were asinine-- _ why were they here? _

“He’s a hundred. He was born March 10, 1917. Fought in World War II and was presumed killed in action, only to show up in assassination footage in the 50s and 60s. He seemingly went dormant in the 70s, but reappeared in the 80s. In 1992, he killed my parents.”

Steve blinked the one eye that was still open.

“What are you  _ talking  _ about?” he exclaimed.

“I’m talking about the Winter--”

The door slammed open and a tall woman with long, curly red hair stormed in. Relief flooded Steve’s chest. “Nat! Thank God,” he sighed, throwing himself into her chest when she held out her arms to him.

“Romanov, what are you doing?” Stark demanded.

“She’s Bucky’s sister!” Steve said, stepping out of the comforting circle of the woman’s arms, wondering how she knew to find her brother here. Did Bucky get to a phone? 

“No, she’s the Black Widow,” Tony snapped. Natasha glared at him and gritted her teeth as if to say  _ shut up! _

Steve pulled back and glanced between the two of them. “What the hell is going  _ on _ ?!”


	2. The Dream

Tony Stark glared over at his long-haired “assistant,” who was actually a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative and spy. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Natasha had been keeping tabs on the Winter Soldier for years now. They were standing in the hallway between the two conference rooms where they were keeping Steve and “Bucky.” Tony couldn’t remember being more pissed off.

“I can’t believe you kept this from me,” he told her, feigning nonchalance.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “I keep everything from you,” she replied.

“Tell me how the man who killed my parents is sitting in the next room, and why his little boyfriend thinks you’re his sister. Natasha, I’m serious.”

She must have seen something in his eyes, smoldering, and caved. Her shoulders visibly collapsed. “Look. I don’t know a lot. Back in 2006, a man was taken into custody after wandering the streets of Bucharest with a bleeding stump of a left arm with some kind of machinery attached. The Russians were alerted, but I happened to get there before they did. Fury told me to bring him in, so I did.

“He didn’t know who or where he was. He spoke to me in English, Romanian, and Russian, none of it comprehensible--and that was when he bothered to speak at all. Mostly he sat around and stared. The scientists of S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to rehabilitate him, but they didn’t make a lot of progress. He latched onto me because I could speak to him. It was actually easier to convince him he was a Brooklyn hipster born in 1995 than it was to recover his memories as the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes.

“I guess we figured… Tony, he’s a war hero. He was Captain America’s best friend. We wanted to give him some semblance of life. So we gave him papers and an apartment and a memory he could use and left him alone. Mostly.”

“War hero?  _ War hero?  _ He killed my parents!” Tony shouted, slamming his fist into the wall.

“No, the Winter Soldier did that. That man,” she paused to point at the door, “drinks craft beer, listens to Bon Iver’s ‘Skinny Love,’ and cries.”

“And what about that one?” Tony gestured in Steve’s direction. “You’re telling me he picked the name of a dead superhero by coincidence?”

A small smile graced Natasha’s full, pink lips. “No, not by coincidence. Steve’s greatest hero is Captain America. You should see their apartment. It’s so patriotic, you would puke.”

Tony shut his eyes. Natasha could almost hear him counting to ten while he breathed. When he opened them, he said, “Don’t think I won’t be talking to Fury about this.”

“I’m sure you will,” she answered, but the man was already stalking off.

Natasha went to Bucky first.  The man was slumped in his chair, but when Natasha walked in, he jumped to his feet. “Where’s Steve?” he asked, flexing his hand into a fist.

“He’s across the hall and he’s fine. Take a breath. How are you?” she asked.

Some of the tension eased out of the man’s shoulders. He reached up and rubbed his forehead. It amazed Natasha that he really did look only twenty-two--the same age he was when he “died.” Slowly, he sat back down. “Who is it that they think I am?”

“It doesn’t matter, Buck. It was just a case of mistaken identity. C’mon. Let’s get Steve and go home,” she said, offering her hand.

Bucky took her hand and allowed her to lead him to the room across the hall where Steve was waiting. The blond rushed to Bucky’s side and allowed him to wrap him up in a crushing one-armed embrace. He kissed the top of Steve’s golden head. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s my fault,” Steve assured him. “Let’s go home?”

“I’ll drive you,” Natasha offered. She wanted to get them both of this building before Bucky became more "distressed." Steve had no idea, but when Bucky started to lose it--when he had migraines and nightmares and flashbacks--Natasha took him to HQ, where a hypnotist "put him back under," so to speak. Betsy was more than a mere hypnotist, though. She went by Psylocke when she was at work, though Natasha had met her when they both infiltrated the Hellfire Club, before she went by that name. 

Natasha shooed them out of the Tower and down into the parking garage. She picked the 1996 Saturn that was “Natasha's-sister-of-Bucky’s.” Steve sat in the back and fiddled with the seam of his jeans. His inherent distrust of authority was only magnified after the incident, but it was the overwhelming sense of betrayal he felt. The Avengers were his idols, and they locked him up.

He hadn’t had much in the way of role models growing up. His mother had raised him alone because his father was an abusive alcoholic. He lived in Queens now, and wrote Steve a letter when he came out full of banalities that ended with the line, “You’ll always be my precious daughter,” because he’d never been beautiful.

“This day has been a disaster,” Bucky sighed, leaning back in the front seat while Natasha drove through rush hour traffic. A spike of guilt went through Steve’s chest. He rubbed his sternum through his shirt and binder. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve replied. Bucky didn’t reply. Natasha filled the silence by asking about Steve’s acne.

“Your face is looking much better,” she said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “Are you using that moisturizer?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the tip,” Steve muttered. He slipped his hand up under the sleeve of his t-shirt and picked at the dry skin on his shoulder. When he was upset, he couldn’t stop picking at his skin. He’d been doing it since he was a little kid. Bucky looked back at him and arched his brows, as if to ask if he was alright.

“Why did Tony Stark call you a black widow?” Steve suddenly asked.

“It’s a nickname,” Natasha quickly replied--almost too quickly. “You know I work for Stark Industries. I have a reputation for being a bitch.”

Steve didn’t buy it for an instant, but he kept his skepticism to himself as they finally pulled up to Steve and Bucky’s apartment building. Natasha promised to check up on them later. Bucky looked tired. He had issues like this from time to time where he was taken down by massive headaches followed by nightmares. They’d been in and out of doctor’s offices, but no one had been able to diagnose a problem. When it got really bad, Natasha took him to a doctor upstate who had been treating him since he was a kid for migraines. Really, except for his arm, Bucky was in perfect, physical health. The doctors were always alarmed by his bloodwork because it was  _ too  _ good. Even Steve had high blood pressure.

They went upstairs, and Steve had Bucky lay down while he made dinner. After they ate, Steve took his shirt and binder off and replaced it with an extra-large Captain America t-shirt so that his figure was lost inside it. In his boxers, he curled up next to Bucky.

“Weird day,” Steve said quietly.

“They said I murdered people. Lots of people. That I was born a hundred years ago and fought in World War 2. That’s can’t be--That can’t be right, right?”

“Of course not. I’ve seen your birth certificate. You were born in 1995. Stark told me the same thing. He’d become unhinged. You’re not that guy.” Steve slipped his arm over Bucky’s chest and settled his head against what was left of the other man’s left shoulder. Almost immediately, Bucky fell asleep. Close contact relaxed him, and Steve would do anything to protect him.

* * *

Bucky stole a plum from a bin in a bodega in Chichicastenango. A small voice inside him voiced a complaint:  _ Guatemala is a shithole _ , but he ignored it. He had a mission. His handler called, and Bucky went to him, following him back to the van. They had showed him pictures of the man who was his mission, but he was bored of it all: the travelling, the death, the cold. Bucky moved along with the van while the team helped him into his gear, including tweaking the mechanics of his artificial left arm.

They drove to where the target was. Bucky got out when they told him to get out. He stepped out in front of a well-dressed group, shouldering his gun. “You’re Jorge Carpio?” he asked, and then open fired.

In 2017, Bucky Barnes woke from a nightmare with a start. Steve was curled up on his side facing away from him, his frail, oh-so-easily crushable ribcage rising and falling with his breath. Bucky cradled his head in his hand and groaned. Steve shifted in his sleep, falling onto his back. His t-shirt had ridden up and exposed most of his chest, including one breast. Bucky looked away. 

He wasn’t made of stone. They were nice breasts. They just didn’t  _ belong  _ there. On the other hand, he loved Steve, whatever sexual characteristics he did or didn’t have. The only reason he turned away from Steve’s nudity now was out of respect for the other man’s wishes.

The dream returned to him full force when he turned to the dark apartment. He could still smell the streets of Guatemala. But he’d never been there, right? His parents had died in an accident. Natasha and Bucky had raised themselves with the help of their aunt. Bucky had never been out of New York.

He shook his head. Tony Stark had fucked him up today. Bucky turned back to Steve, pulled his shirt down, and pressed his lips against the other man’s neck. Steve woke with a sigh and put his arms around Bucky’s neck. He shifted his body so that it fit underneath Bucky’s and wrapped his legs around his hips. Bucky’s cock responded to the damp heat of Steve’s pussy through his boxers. Steve’s mouth fell open as he increased the friction between them.

Bucky groaned.

Steve bit his lip and inched his boxers down his slim hips so that flesh slid against delicious flesh. Bucky shuddered as his cock slipped between Steve’s inner lips. He was wet and hard. No need for lube tonight. Bucky canted his hips so that he pushed inside the other man. Steve supported some of Bucky’s weight with his shoulder while they fucked. 

“Come inside me,” Steve whispered into his ear. Since his hysterectomy, they didn’t have to take the same precaution--and Bucky loved it almost as much as Steve. He came with a shuddering sigh and then finished Steve off with his hand while his semen dripped out of him. The blond writhed like a snake as his orgasm hit him hard--toes curling, head thrown back, spine arched at an almost preternatural angle. Then he slumped back onto the bed, breathing hard, and curled up next to Bucky in his sweaty t-shirt. In moments, he was asleep again.

Bucky couldn’t sleep. He remembered the dream, the horrible dream, and how the man’s-- _ the target’s-- _ face had exploded into shrapnels of bone and red mist. 

...Had he done that?

Who was Bucky Barnes?

Was he the half-brother of Natasha Romanov? Son of a ballet dancer and real estate magnate?

Or was he the murderer he saw in his nightmares, with cold eyes made colder by swathes of tactical makeup?


	3. The Cafe

Steve woke the next morning feeling exhausted. The sex last night coupled with the fact that it’d been nine days since his last shot practically ensured that he would be late for his job. When he first started taking testosterone, he’d been sleepy, horny, and hungry--in that order. For the first three days after his shot, all he could do was sleep (when he wasn’t working) and masturbate (sometimes when he was). In those first weeks, he had sexted Bucky while bent over the changing station in the private family bathroom. Not his proudest moment, but it wasn’t as though there had been cameras.

As his clit grew, he became more accustomed to referring to it as his cock instead, and it came with a completely different operating manual. The DJ method no longer worked, and often times--especially at the beginning--the head had been too sensitive to even touch. Now at almost a year in, he’d pretty much perfected a kind of overhanded stroke that hit all the right places. It was harder for Bucky to do, but his tongue worked just as well. Thinking about it made him horny, and seeing as how he didn’t feel Bucky in the bed behind him, he stuck his hand down the front of his boxers and set to work. His residual “morning dew” was more than enough to use as lubrication.

Bucky exited the bathroom just as Steve really started to get into it: thrusting his hips into his cupped hand. He dropped his hand from the toothbrush in his mouth and, from around it, said, “Hold on, let me spit.”

Steve, red-faced, stilled his hand and waited. Bucky returned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He knelt by the side of the bed, and Steve obediently draped his knees over Bucky’s shoulders, allowing him to finish the job.

After he came, Bucky slapped him on his flank and said, “You’re gonna be late for work.”

“What about you?” Steve panted, pulling his boxers back up. They stank. _He_ stank. He hadn’t been prepared to have the entire scent of his body change, though he should have expected it. The particular scent of his genitals was less female and more male, but separate from both.

“Me too,” Bucky replied. “So come on.”

Steve showered quickly, and they rushed to the subway station. Steve worked at one of those “progressive” cafes, despite not being particularly “progressive” himself. He considered himself left-of-center and refused to engage in political arguments with his coworkers, They always came at him with suggestions about different hair colors, piercings, and tattoos, but he laughed it off. That just wasn’t him.

Bucky worked nearby at an upscale clothing boutique, where he definitely sold the product. He wore a deep v-neck sweater with the sleeve pinned up, but his cut jaw, dusted with stubble, long hair, and very flattering jeans made him look like a model. Steve didn’t feel like he deserved to be with a man that attractive.

They met at the cafe. Bucky took his coffee break there every day, and every day, Steve took his order. Of course, back then, Steve had hair down to his waist and a slim, petite figure--breasts that he supported with expensive bras so they would look good under t-shirts. His name tag said something different. He wore his hair long to hide his prominent nose and cheekbones and square chin.

Like he said, he’d never been beautiful.

One day, Bucky asked him to take a break with him. He brushed his hand over Steve’s cheek to push his hair back. “You know,” he’d said, “you have the perfect face for really short hair. Not many people can pull it off. Myself included.” He lifted a tendril of dark hair from his shoulders with a shrug as if to say, _What’s there to do?_

The idea had never occurred to Steve to cut his hair, but the idea struck him down to the core. It sounded very much like something he wanted.

Steve cut his hair the next day, and they went on their first date that evening. It took him three years to be ready to really be Steve--including a stammering confession to the man who inadvertently led him to the realization in the first place.

“All I want is for you to be happy,” he’d said, with the same shrug.

_What’s there to do?_

Four years later, and Bucky was still trying to convince Steve to wear something other than t-shirts and jeans or basketball shorts with little to no success.

Today he was wearing the same pair of jeans he’d been wearing all week, coffee-stained and baggy in the ass for want of a wash. His t-shirt today was one he wore before he started T. It had holes in the underarms where his proudly grown pit-hair poked through. On the front: a washed out version of a parody of Obama’s “HOPE” campaign featuring Captain America. His right wrist heavy with rubber bands he’d gotten from various comic book and sci-fi conventions he went to with Bucky.  

Upon stepping into the cafe, he was assailed by one of his coworkers, Arnie Roth. Arnie had been Steve’s best (only) friend since he started working at the cafe. He was a strong, swarthy man of Jewish descent with a boyfriend named Michael who liked to spend time at the shop. Right now, Arnie sported a blue strip in his hair, which had turned out rather poorly because of the darkness and texture of his hair. He was almost as tattooed as Steve was not.

“Did you get Thor’s autograph?” he asked archly; he had covered Steve’s shift as a favor.

“No,” Steve sighed, rolling his eyes. He pushed past Arnie (really, Arnie allowed him to go by), and took up his apron from the back.

“Not even an autograph? All that for nothing! I’ll have you know, Mr. Wilson came in yesterday,” his friend went on. Mr. Wilson was notoriously hard on staff.

“What, did you expect him to step through the crowd and whisk me off my feet?” Steve snapped, trying to be normal. He needed to be normal after yesterday.

“That’s exactly what I expected,” Arnie replied. “Anyway, it’s your turn to clean the press.”

Steve made a face behind Arnie’s back and went to work.

Next door, Bucky was also trying to be normal. His own coworker, a slim blonde girl who called herself “Tesla,” althought that certainly was not her real name, provided little help, because she regarded him coolly at best. She had made her feelings about Bucky known early on when she was hired. Tesla had at least been nominally nice to him until Steve showed up in the shop. Another slim blond, but only a month or so on hormones. Maybe she saw him as competition or, more likely, she took in his scrubby appearance and decided they were trash. Either way, Bucky wasn’t jumping to be her friend, though he did enjoy her company regardless. It was better than working alone.

Because it was mid-morning, customers were few and far between. They usually had a morning rush when businessmen stormed in with coffee on their tie or shirt, then nothing until the afternoon. Bucky was behind the till, playing on his phone and chewing on the end of a strand of hair.

“ASSASSINATIONS IN GUATEMALA” was what he typed into Google. In return, he got a link to Wikipedia, which sent him on a very short trail to an article about Jorge Carpio Nicolle. The assassination described was exactly the one from his dreams. _Exactly_. He felt the blood drain from his face and his fingertips grow numb.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Tesla said in heavily accented English.

“Just--Just a bad night,” Bucky heard himself reply.

“Did you step on Steve’s shoes?” she asked playfully. It was a Russian superstition that Bucky was aware of from his sister--or was it his aunt? If you stepped on someone’s shoes, you were bound to have an argument.

“No, he and I are fine,” he replied.

“My grandma used to say that if you are having a bad time, it is the evil eye. You should take your jacket off and put it back on starting with the arm you usually don’t,” Tesla went on.

Bucky had heard this one, too, and didn’t _really_ believe in the evil eye, but he did it anyway--with her help. His jacket was cut sharply from stiff, dark wool, and really emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. Together, he and Tesla made the sign of the Figa, a kind of closed fist with the thumb between the first two fingers. It was meant to ward off the curse. They laughed.

“Who taught you this?” she asked.

“I don’t remember. My aunt, I suppose. My mother died when I was a kid,” Bucky replied. When had he last seen his aunt? Not since he started seeing Steve, surely. He would remember bringing him to meet her.

“Ah, what of your grandma? Still in the Motherland?” she said with a snort.

“I don’t know. I guess so.” Natasha had never told him. All of his childhood memories were vague. His mother had been a prima ballerina and his father a real estate agent. But he only remembered their faces from pictures.

“It must be hard to have lost your mama so young,” she said, patting his shoulder sympathetically. He mumbled something under his breath and picked his phone back up. He called Natasha. The phone made a weird clicking sound before she picked up.

“What’s up?” she greeted him. He could hear paper rustling in the background, She sounded far away,

“Don’t you think it’s time we visited our aunt?”

“Buck,” she said slowly, “she’s dead, remember? She died last year. We went to her funeral in New Jersey.”

Now that he thought about it, he _did_ remember going to New Jersey sometime around February, now almost two years ago as they approached Christmas. But he didn’t remember a funeral. Had he blocked it out, or had it really been so run of the mill and bland that he didn’t remember? He knew his memory was spotty, but he thought it would be something he remembered.

“Oh. Nat, I had another dream last night. I was in Guatemala, and I blew some guy’s face off,” he told her. Inwardly, he prayed that she had some answer. Some rational explanation as to why he remembered the exact details of an assassination that occurred two years before he was born.

“Maybe it’s time to schedule another appointment with your therapist,” she suggested lightly. There was more rustling. There was another click on the line. It made him uneasy.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

“I’ll make one for you. What’s your work schedule like this week?”

He told her, and after saying their goodbyes, hung up. By then he was due for a lunch, so he walked the short distance to Steve’s cafe.

Arnie greeted him coldly when he entered. “Hello, Bucky,” he said with narrow eyes. Unlike Tesla, he openly disliked Bucky, but it was more out of a big-brother affection for Steve. Bucky had never been able to figure out what his issue was exactly, but kept his peace for Steve’s sake.

Steve appeared a moment later, wiping his filthy hands on his apron. “My day to clean out the press,” he explained, and then loosened the ties from around his waist. “Want me to grab you the usual?” His bright smile made Bucky want to cry.

The whole story came falling out over coffee--and Bucky, to his shame, actually did cry. The incident at the Tower, the nightmare, his aunt’s “funeral.” Steve came around the table and wrapped his skinny arms around Bucky’s head, letting him cry into his faded Captain America shirt. Even as he cried, he laughed because it was just such typical Steve--of course he’d idolize a man who went from an asthmatic, underweight weakling to the peak of male perfection.

“We’ll get to the bottom of it, Buck, I promise,” he said, rocking him back and forth. Bucky’s tears dried up quickly in the other man’s embrace. Steve grabbed a few napkins off the table and handed them to Bucky, who cleaned himself up.

“Natasha made an appointment for me with my therapist,” he said.

“Would it be alright if I went with you this time?” Steve asked. There was a suspicious tilt to his brows. Reading his face was as easy as reading a book by now.

“You know she always says no.”

“That’s what I’m sick of!” Steve exclaimed. “Nat works for Stark, and Stark heads up the Avengers--and now he’s making these ridiculous claims--and the dreams…”

Bucky looked up at him, lost. He needed help, and Steve felt like the only one he could trust.

“I’m just saying, maybe there’s something deeper going on, something Nat is keeping from you, I know she’s your sister--”

“Do we know that?” Bucky interjected. “Steve, I don’t know _anything._ I don’t know who I am anymore. Do you know what it’s like to have doubt about who you are--”

He cut himself off just as Steve knowingly lifted his brows.

“Please, I need your help.” Tears pricked his eyes again.

Steve’s eyes were just as watery, but he smiled through it bravely. “If there’s one person you can trust, it’s Steve fuckin’ Rogers.”

**Author's Note:**

> Being trans myself, this story started out as an exercise for me to see myself through my boyfriend's eyes. I guess we'll see where it goes!


End file.
